


Let's Breathe Awhile

by honey_wheeler



Series: Bedroom Hymns [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks; that’s how long Sansa will most likely be laid up. Not coincidentally, that’s also how long she’ll have to peruse the book in search of a position far less hazardous than her last disastrous choice. “The butter churner” indeed. More like “the neck breaker.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Breathe Awhile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



> Based on [this post](http://misshoneywheeler.tumblr.com/post/132731184571/thatgirlnevershutsup-butter-churner-benefits). I said Jon and Sansa probably wouldn't be doing this in Bedroom Hymns, and Snacky suggested that they WOULD, and then Sansa would have to spend weeks in bed with the resultant sprained neck, and here we are.

Two weeks; that’s how long Sansa will most likely be laid up. Not coincidentally, that’s also how long she’ll have to peruse the book in search of a position far less hazardous than her last disastrous choice. “The butter churner” indeed. More like “the neck breaker.”

Jon was beside himself with guilt when it happened, the dear, though he needn’t have been. It had been Sansa’s idea from the start, and he’d gone along with it only reluctantly, with much hesitation and skepticism. The whole mess would have been bad enough with just the horrible popping sound in her neck and instant pain all down her back when she lost her balance, but to make matters worse, they hadn’t even managed anything proper before it all went…well, tits up, so to speak. Sansa could have borne her injury with better grace if she’d at least gotten a good dose of pleasure first.

And now the book is here in her bedchamber, right here on the bed itself. Taunting her.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” she mutters at the book, dimly aware that it’s only the mild dose of milk of the poppy that Sam had given her that has her sniping at an inanimate object. But then she shrugs and hauls the book onto her lap. She’s already bored and she hasn’t even been alone and infirm in her bed for half an hour yet, Sam having bustled out with his tray of salves and concoctions only minutes ago, so at least looking through the book for a tamer position for next time will give her something to do.

The creak of her bedchamber door pulls disrupts her attention on the book – and disrupts the gentle thrum in her belly that looking at its illustrations always gives her. It’s quite pleasing, actually, that even with only a sprained neck to show for her last endeavor she’s still enticed to try more. It makes her feel rather grown up. The thrum comes back, though, when she looks up to see Jon’s facing peering in, despite the fact that he looks utterly wretched.

“Have I disturbed you?” he asks, only leaning through the door a bit rather than coming in. His mouth pulls into an unhappy twist, guilt etched in every line between his knit brows. “You need your rest. I’ll go.”

“Jon,” Sansa laughs, beckoning him in before he can continue his retreat. “I’ve tweaked my neck, not suffered a fever. Come and divert me.” Jon enters the room and settles himself gingerly on the edge of her bed, grimacing at the movement of the mattress. With one finger, he lifts the edge of the book in her lap.

“Don’t you think it’s time to retire this?” he asks. “Now that it’s proven to be rather injurious.”

“Nonsense, Jon. What’s one silly injury when it’s served us so well up ‘til now?”

Jon flushes, no doubt remembering all the wonderfully indelicate ways it’s indeed served them. Or perhaps he’s coloring at Sansa’s frankness. They do have a tendency to get a bit shy outside their bedroom activities.

“Besides,” she adds. “We’ve unfinished business with that book.”

Jon looks skeptical again, nearly as skeptical as he’d looked when she first showed him the illustration of the man on his feet and the woman upside down between them, the two of them notched together all topsy-turvy.

“Have we?” 

“Oh yes,” she says, with a firm nod that makes her wince and pause to recover herself while Jon looks on in worry. “You see, I didn’t… That is, I haven’t… Before I fell, I…” Now it’s her turn to blush. This is a type of frankness that’s new to her. Sansa lifts her chin and soldiers on, determined. “I didn’t come and I’d quite like to.”

Jon’s mouth works silently like that of a fish. Sansa giggles, pleased by his reaction and rather proud of herself. “So you see, we rather need the book, still.”

He recovers quickly, his eyes taking on a glint that intrigues Sansa and makes something flutter low in her belly. “Not everything is in that book, you know,” he says, almost conversationally, like they’re discussing what to have for dinner, or how the weather may turn tomorrow.

“Oh?” she asks. As if she’s merely curious, rather than suddenly warm all over.

“Mm,” Jon hums. The sound of it rubs over Sansa’s skin like an actual touch. “Sometimes one can improvise. Sometimes one can tailor things precisely to one’s partner. If she’s inexperienced, for instance or…” His cheeks flame again, but he looks as determined as she. “Or with child. Or perhaps infirm because her lummox husband didn’t keep her upright during an ill-advised frolic and now feels so racked with guilt he can only make it up to her by doing all the work, for as long as it takes.”

Sansa laughs and then winces when it jars her neck. “I rather like the sound of that,” she decides.

“You’ll have to be quite still, though, because of your neck,” he says, his face seeming to soften and sharpen at the same time, until he’s looking at her like she’s some morsel he wants to sample. “No matter what I do.”

“No matter what,” she agrees, suddenly breathless.

“So I’ll have to go very,” he draws one finger over her collarbone through her shift, “very,” then down the side of her breast, making her inhale sharply, “slowly. Gently.” Lightly, his fingertips skip down her ribs, dipping under the furs and touching the crease of her hip. “As if you might break.”

“Again,” Sansa laughs at that, and Jon’s eyes crinkle in response.

“Again,” he echoes.

“I suppose if you must go slowly,” she says, sighing in mock resignation. “Luckily we have weeks where I can do little else.” Already he’s stretching out beside her, his hand warm on her belly, even as cozy as she is under the furs.

“I look forward to making the weeks fly, my lady,” he says. His lips brush her ear as she says it, her jaw, her chin, then begin a leisurely path downwards.

“As do I,” Sansa sighs, settling back into her pillows and relaxing completely to his ministrations. “As do I.”


End file.
